


Thief in the Night

by zuzeca



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Beast Wars
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Arguing, Breaking and Entering, Community: tfanonkink, Consent Issues, Espionage, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hacking, Handcuffs, Interrogation, M/M, Molestation, Other, Plug and Play Sex, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 08:47:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1298764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzeca/pseuds/zuzeca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Earth wasn't the first time Rattrap encountered Dinobot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thief in the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Repost of another old fic, and my very first kinkmeme fill for this fandom no less. Ah, so many memories. Recent discussions about Beast Wars reminded me that I still hadn't moved this one over to AO3. Link to the original prompt is [here](http://community.livejournal.com/tfanonkink/491.html?thread=242411#t242411). Also I do realize Demolisher is a character in another TF continuity, but I wanted to give Dinobot a pre-BW designation, so Demolisher he is. Enjoy. :3
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own _Beast Wars_ , all characters are the property of their respective copyright holders. I am making no profit from this work of fiction.

He wouldn’t have even realized if the slagging Pred would have just kept his mouth shut. Pit, they’d all been reformatted, wasn’t like anyone had a velociraptor alt mode on Cybertron. They even had new designations to go with the organic bodies, though in retrospect he should have suspected. The bastard was terminally uncreative when it came to such ordinary slag as names. Dinobot? Come on now. But scanning a new alt mode didn’t change one’s basic structure and the low hiss of his voice sounded exactly the same.

_Vermin._

Rattrap groaned, allowing his helm to drop back against the wall of his quarters with a dull clank.

He supposed it was lucky, or unlucky in the context of his present situation, that Optimus hadn’t bothered to look too closely at his résumé. Not that there was anything suspicious on it, but Rattrap knew just as well that sometimes it was the information that _wasn’t_ there that mattered. He’d been surprised when the Boss Monkey hadn’t questioned the third occupation listed, right under “Navigator” and “Demolitions Expert”.

Freelance Surveillance Consultant. A fancy title which only barely served to disguise what he’d been: a Maximal spy.

He’d occasionally be called on to… _liberate_ certain sensitive data tracks. It was a risky gig, and not something he particularly liked doing, especially as rising tensions between the factions upped the likelihood that any Pred that caught him would shoot first and ask questions later, but he was good at it, and it paid well.

It had been his last job. Sneak into the quarters of Megatron’s new up-and-coming lieutenant, a Predacon of unknown age who’d started out making a name for himself in underground blood sport.

Demolisher.

It was supposed to be a quick in-and-out. Demolisher would be joining Megatron for some kind of secret Pred shindig that evening. Slip in while the big lug was gone, download the contents of his computer, and slip back out. Easy as Rhinox with too much high-grade.

Only the meeting hadn’t gone as planned and Dino-butt had returned two megacycles early.

He still didn’t know why the slagger hadn’t just blasted him. Primus knew it would have been easier and less humiliating.

_Vermin._

Sense-memory fizzled though his CPU and Rattrap shuddered. 

 

He’d been bent over the console, optics turned inward as he broke through the encryption with ease, when he felt the press of a blaster against the side of his head.

“So, I leave my quarters for only a few megacycles,” the blaster nudged a little closer, “and return to find them infested with vermin.”

He’d held utterly still, as if frozen in fear, though in reality he’d been working to extract his consciousness from the mainframe. Vision returned to him and he canted his optics to the side, but caught only the impression of a large shadow.

“What?” he said, even as the hand hidden by his body crept down towards the mini-blaster he kept tucked in a compartment. “You forget about the midnight computer upgrade you ordered?”

“Ah, yes,” Demolisher said, “how silly of me.”

A swift blow had him dropping the blaster before he could get it free. A kick and it spun across the floor, disappearing into the shadows beneath the berth. He was dragged off his feet in a shocking display of strength. Something snapped around his wrist and numbness flared as circuits shorted out.

_What the slag is he doing with stasis cuffs?_ He struggled, but Demolisher caught his free arm and fed it through the other cuff. A spark of pain shot through his processor as interface cables were wrenched from the console and he was turned to face his captor.

Slag, but he was huge. Baleful red optics glared down at him from beneath a scuffed helm. Blocky armor suggested a construction vehicle alt mode, but the mech carried himself like a fighter.

“I believe the customary statement,” Demolisher said, “is ‘you are under arrest’.”

“Gonna drag me down to the station? Go right ahead.”

“I do not think so,” the mech said. “Drawing that kind of attention would be…unwanted, I suspect, for both of us.” His optics narrowed. “No, I think we can settle this right here.”

_I am in such deep slag._

“Come on, buddy.” He gave a nervous chuckle “Murder is overrated, don’t ya know?”

A grunt, “Perhaps, but it does not sit well with my spark to let a miscreant go without proper punishment.”

A heave and he was tossed onto the berth. His helm clanged against the metal and static buzzed across his vision for a moment, then the sensation of crushing weight as Demolisher hefted his bulk onto the berth and straddled him.

The mech loomed over him, optics glinting. “First things first,” he said. “Who sent you?”

“Ah, you see, I’d _like_ to tell ya, but you whanged my head pretty good with that stunt, dangerous thing to do ya know, and it _may_ have slipped my processor—”

A deafening snarl interrupted him. “Do not attempt to dissemble, vermin.” Demolisher studied him for a moment, “Never mind, you do not need to reveal your employer. Your presence here speaks loudly enough.” Demolisher straightened, and growled, half to himself. “Megatron must be making the Maximals nervous."

He squirmed under the weight of the larger mech. “So, if that’s all cleared up, maybe you could let me go, no harm, no foul?”

Optics focused back on him. “No,” Demolisher rumbled, “not just yet, I think.”

He _really_ didn’t like the look the slagger was giving him.

 

The thing about stasis cuffs was that while they locked down transformation sequences and just about all motor functions, they still kept the suspect nice and conscious. They also didn’t disable any sensors.

He’d bet his next paycheck, assuming he lived to see it, they’d been invented by a Pred.

Demolisher hiked him further up the berth, running huge hands down his sides, stimulating external sensors, occasionally delving between the plates of his superstructure to tug at his circuits.

He’d have to be glitched and slow not to realize what the slagger had in mind.

His optics widened. “Hang on a slagging nanoklick there, just what do you think you’re doing, Gear Head?”

Optics flicked up to meet his, “I should think that would be obvious, Maximal.”

One hand crept down and caressed the seams of his pelvic plating. He swallowed a staticky moan, “Pervert.”

A slight pinch to one of his main energon lines, “Perhaps.”

His systems were already starting to run hot. It had been too slagging long since his last encounter. Desperate, he tried another tack, “You gonna rape me then?”

Demolisher went still above him. “No,” he said slowly, “that would be dishonorable. However, I am neither blind nor stupid. You have been venting hot air on me for the last five cycles.”

The mech leaned down and purred into his audio sensor. “It has been a long time since I last interfaced and from the way you keep twitching,” a long lick against the plating of his throat, “I suspect it is the same for you.” Gentle, insistent pressure against his pelvic plating, “Your mission is already a loss, why not allow yourself some enjoyment?” Demolisher pulled back for a moment and looked at him, expression serious, “I swear you will not be harmed.”

For once in his life he was speechless. He stuttered, trying to get his vocalizer to respond but Demolisher just sat silent, waiting patiently for his answer. 

_Oh, slag it all._

He let his helm drop back onto the berth, “Give it to me, ya slagger.” He was rewarded with a growl that sent shivers radiating out from his rapidly pulsing spark.

As the Pred dove back into his circuits, a thought occurred to him, “Take off the cuffs.”

A rumble of amusement, “As I said before, little Maximal, I am honorable, but not stupid.” 

_I am turning in my fragging resignation letter next chance I get._

 

It was torture, pinned flat on his back, unable to even squirm as teeth nipped at his plating and the mech licked and teased at his port cover. “Hurry up, you slagging Pred. What are you waiting for, the coming of Unicron?” 

“Open up then.”

“I told ya,” he snarled, “I can’t open it with the slagging _cuffs_ —” Hands pressed and manipulated and he nearly shrieked as plating retracted, exposing his port to the air.

Demolisher made a sound of approval and licked, delving into the port, stimulating sensor nodes. He moaned.

Not enough. The low level tactile stimulation kept him near enough to overload to taste it, but was not sufficient to push him over the edge. He banged his helm against the berth, the only physical sign of his frustration he could make, “Will ya stop pussyfooting around and just ‘face me already! Is your equipment broken or something?”

A growl and he was yanked down the berth. He yelped as he was spread forcibly, his legs hooked around wide pelvic plating. The solid shape of a plug shoved into him, stretching his port to the point of pain.

“Does that feel broken to you, vermin?”

Determined not to let the slagger have the last word, he gritted out, “Not sure, Pred. So far all you’ve done is poke me with it.”

The electric pulse that was his answer sent his processor reeling and lit up his circuits like a Primus-damned explosion. He cycled air through his intakes as fast as he could, his vents steaming as he gritted his teeth and shoved back with a pulse of his own. 

Demolisher snarled in pleasure and, bending his backstruts in an impressively flexible maneuver for a mech so large, sank pointed teeth into the exposed tubing of his throat as another pulse jackhammered through him.

He tried to recover, put them back on a more even footing but the Pred was relentless, sending pulses so close together that he couldn’t do anything but moan. Heat built in his circuitry and his vents flared in an involuntary effort to dump the excess. He could feel Demolisher’s spark from this proximity, pulsing and flaring and his own spark fairly leaped toward the other. He barely had time to realize that their sparks were beating in slagging _rhythm_ with each other when there was a screech of grinding metal and his chassis folded back. 

His processor went cold, stalling, unable to comprehend this new development, this _betrayal_ because he might have had a reputation for facing just about anything that moved but he’d never lost it that far. Aroused, overcharged or consumed with loneliness thick enough to choke his circuits he _never_ exposed his spark.

Demolisher had paused above him, sharp, pointed features lit clearly for the first time. Slowly, the Pred reached out, stretching a hand towards the flaring light. 

“Don’t,” he choked out, loathing the way his voice cracked in panic.

Optics met his, but the mech remained silent. Hands reached again and he offlined his optics, hating how his treacherous spark leaped towards the Pred even as his processor quailed.

Gentle hands pressed against his chest plating, easing his chassis closed.

His optics onlined with shock. 

Hands slid beneath him, angling him up. Demolisher gave an impatient growl.

He didn’t question his good fortune, just hung on as another pulse rocked through him.

He couldn’t quite get himself together and send a pulse back, but Demolisher didn’t seem to mind, content to ride the feedback loop as he pushed them higher. He’d cooled a bit during the interim, but it didn’t take more than a few pulses before he was panting.

Just when he thought he would go mad, Demolisher leaned in close and pushed out with his energy field, pressing up against his spark.

Overload pounced. Despite his immobilization, his body twitched and sparked and he cried out. Above him, the Pred snarled as his own overload hit him, sweeping through them both.

As he sagged to the berth, slipping into stasis, he heard the soft click of the cuffs disengaging.

 

He onlined in complete silence, instinctually aware that he was in a strange berth. Not daring to move, he glanced around the room.

Demolisher lay nearby, optics dark, intakes cycling in the even rhythm of stasis.

Cautious, he eased to the edge of the berth, reaching beneath it and groping for his blaster. Weapon clutched in his hand, he rose, optics fixed on the Pred.

Demolisher didn’t move.

Not taking his optics off the slumbering mech, he crept toward the computer. Silently he slid an interface cable into an open port, but kept his consciousness free of the mainframe, working blind. It wasn’t as easy, but he’d hacked tougher things this way.

Information safely downloaded, he slipped out the door. Made it all the way outside before he let himself start running.

It wasn’t until he got a chance to look at the data he’d pulled that he realized that it was useless. Job contracts, all perfectly legal, a shopping list or two and an ancient collection of Earth _poetry_. 

Slagging Pred had known he’d been nowhere near the real paydirt. He’d been had.

He dumped the useless data on his boss’s desk with his letter of resignation and booked it. Hooked up with the _Axalon_ by the next stellar cycle and tried to put the whole, humiliating debacle behind him. Told himself it was a fluke, didn’t mean a thing. His spark was just glitched. He wasn’t some kind of Pred-loving freak.

Then the slag-sucker showed up on the damned planet with them, still spouting nonsense about honor and Maximals and Megatron. And his spark, that treacherous ball of light in his chassis, had leaped at the sound of his voice.

There’d been nowhere to run this time, cramped aboard the small ship, so like the organic creature that formed his alt mode he’d taken to skulking in the shadows, hiding behind wisecracks and trusting rudeness to keep the saurian at bay.

He should have known it wouldn’t stop the stubborn slagger. 

 

As soon as he’d bothered to take a good look at the small Maximal, he’d known. The same mulish defiance, the grating insults, the keen intelligence hidden behind a veil of clowning idiocy, they were all there. But the telling moment was when they clashed in battle, nothing more than a scuffle, and the rat’s energy field whipped out, pressing against his. An instant of déjà vu, of synchronicity, and he knew.

And by the determined way the rodent kept abusing him, he wasn’t the only one.

He’d never considered himself a romantic, had scoffed more than once at the idealistic tales their kind told, of spark bonds, fated partnerships, of finding one’s resonant other. Maximal nonsense, he’d called it; he’d interfaced many times and never felt anything unusual.

Then the rodent’s spark had reached out and synced with his without even touching it. A feedback buzz of emotion, subtle sensations that weren’t usually possible without a spark-to-spark connection, effervesced in his processor. And at the sight of the spark, glowing like the seed of a newborn star, his own leaped and the desire to join, generally a mild hum in the background, had flared to inferno levels.

He still wasn’t sure what he would have done if the rat hadn’t called a halt.

Shaken by the strength of the desire, he’d loosed the Maximal and feigned recharge as he listened to the vermin slip from his room. Pushed aside the lingering sense of his energy field, wrote the encounter off as a coincidence and went about business as usual. 

Then he’d encountered the rodent in the last place in the universe he ever expected. And he started to believe in fate, just a little.

He wasn’t about to let the rat slip through his claws a second time. 

If the vermin wanted to play coy that was fine. He had more than enough patience for a pursuit of this nature.

He pressed, toying with his prey, tossing out offenses that were closer to playful jabs and deliberately dropping the pitch of his voice just to watch the rat squirm.

Whatever his alt mode, Dinobot was a born hunter.

And if the rodent balked, well, he still kept a spare pair of stasis cuffs in his quarters.


End file.
